Annie in the foster system
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Annie nods.

She doesn't need help with any of the words, she skates right through it, giggling.

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Romeo and Juliet has indeed provided weeks of classroom hilarity to ten- and eleven-year-old girls for decades. Annie is delightful. Miss Enderbridge does her share of giggling, but a smaller share, The Tempest is more serious in tone. 

"Have you read Shakespeare before?" Miss Enderbridge asks her, once they've both finished their books and are enjoying more tea, respectively hot and cold. 

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"Nope! He's amazing! Did he write a lot of things?"

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"Lots and lots! More than thirty plays, and they're still being performed now - can you imagine that! Four hundred years later! ...And poetry, too. A hundred and fifty sonnets. Can you do poetry? I always thought it was most of the good parts of music, without the, well, the music part." 

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"I think poetry is safe!"

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Grin. "Shakespeare has lots and lots of sonnets about love. I don't know if he meant for any of them to be about soulmates but the wonderful thing about Shakespeare is that it can be a metaphor for all sorts of things. The truly great writers are like that, I think." 

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"Can I have some sonnets to read?"

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She can have the entire book of 154 sonnets

Miss Enderbridge has little neon sticky notes marking sonnets number 27, 30, 37, 38, 71, 85, 91, and several others.

"You don't want my favorites for love, though," she admits. "I've never been in love - except with books! characters in books, sometimes - so I never really found those as meaningful. But go have a look through them, why don't you." 

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"I can read about other things too." She will read all the sonnets in order.

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Miss Enderbridge thinks that Annie is a wonderful funny little thing, though she's undoubtedly a funny little thing. 

She considers finding her other copy of Shakespeare's sonnets, but it's the annotated one from her teaching days, which is also full of highlighted lines and margin notes from classes. Also she has it nearly memorized. (Miss Enderbridge never means to memorize things. It just sort of happens, with poetry she recites often, and then it tends to stick even if it's been years.) 

She's definitely in a poetry mood now, though. After a couple of minutes, she goes and finds her book of sonnets by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Much more recent, of course, but she's still quite brilliant. 

 

...Oh, that's one of her favorites. It's not exactly about soulmates but it could be sort of metaphorically about soulmates, you know? 

She would put in a bookmark there and wait until Annie had finished her own book of sonnets, but it's midafternoon and Evelyn will probably want to take Annie right back home once she comes back with the groceries, and Shakespeare's poetry is dense, even a very fast reader might take a bit. 

"Annie?" she says. "Would you like to hear a poem I love? It's by a different poet but I think you might like it." 

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Miss Enderbridge stands, and takes a deep breath, and arranges her posture into a sort of proud and erect stance. She can't help it. That's just the only correct way to read poetry. (Not that she needs to consult the book in her hand, for this one.) 

"Sonnet 43," she says, "by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, she lived in the nineteenth century. Two hundred years after Shakespeare - two hundred years! - but the form is the same." 

And then her voice deepens a little, which is also not something she does on purpose; she had an elocution tutor when she was a girl and used to perform at poetry recitations, and it's stuck. 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

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Yeah she's going to start crying at the end there. Crying really really hard.

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That wasn't the expected or intended response but it's very normal to cry about poetry! Especially when it hits you in a way that's personal, that goes straight to your heart, and Miss Enderbridge can recognize when a poem or a story is hitting someone straight to their heart. 

She sets the book down neatly on the table and sits and looks at Annie. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says quietly. "And very sad. And - you are missing someone, aren't you? ....Do you want a cuddle?" She pats her lap. "You can come right here, if you do. I'd scoop you right up, but I can't do that anymore with these old bones." 

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She can get a lap Annie.

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Miss Enderbridge does not make a face at all even though her knee is, in fact, sore. She puts her arms around Annie.

....She hasn't had a child this size on her lap in decades, not since her youngest sister finished having babies. She wouldn't have said at the time that she liked it - little children are sticky and do things like put their hands all over your glasses - but there's something quite nice, actually, about snuggling a little girl who can really appreciate Kafka, and Shakespeare - a funny little thing who misses someone she's never met - Miss Enderbridge isn't sure why she's so certain of that, but you wouldn't cry about that poem if you'd just gotten attached to a nurse in a hospital when you're a baby, that doesn't fit at all....

She pets Annie's back, sort of like you would to a cat, though Annie is definitely heavier than a cat. "It's very sad, isn't it? I'm sorry." 

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Snuggle. "You can tell me about it, if you want. I'm curious, I really am - I don't know what it's like to love someone at all, honestly, much less to love someone you've never properly met." 

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"I think I must have met them but I don't remember it again yet."

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"Again yet? ...You are a wise old soul stuck in a little body, aren't you." 

Miss Enderbridge doesn't say anything else just yet. She doesn't think she's actually very good at this. People don't usually have this many feelings in front of her. 

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"I don't know how old."

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"What do you know?" Miss Enderbridge pets Annie's hair. Not so different from a cat, but much more interesting to talk to, and less likely to make messes. "- How to read, clearly." 

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"If you have Kafka in the original I could read that, too."

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“Brilliant! …I might, though not all of them, and they’d be in my attic boxes, this old brain isn’t as quick as it once was. Latin I can still do, and I can muddle along with Greek - do you read those too? - but it hurts my poor head to do Dutch or German these days. Even though they're so closely related to English! French is easier, which is very silly, I think." 

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